


Basic Straining — Fantasy Adventure AU

by f0rt1ss1m0



Category: Total Drama
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Oneshot, Romance, it's literally just Basic Straining rewritten in a medieval AU just take the trash, rewritten episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 03:02:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12003621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f0rt1ss1m0/pseuds/f0rt1ss1m0
Summary: Written for Total Drama Official Amino, at the prompt of #ACPRR3! Prompt: the episode Basic Straining rewritten as an adventure story. Edited and partially written by my sister.-Welcome to Total Drama Kingdom, where twenty-two young questers compete in adventures and prove themselves the kingdom’s best royal pains in the butts! In this week's challenge, they will be taken on a full-length journey across the Isle of Wawanakwa by the tournament's infamous former knight, General Hatchet! But can future Duchess Courtney put up with Duncan's chronic lawbreaking much longer, or will she finally snap?





	Basic Straining — Fantasy Adventure AU

**Author's Note:**

> The bad news: no Petri Dish, De Facto, or Adagio today. Sorry.
> 
> The good news: me and my sister are competing in the TD Amino's ACPRR3 contest, and the first challenge was to write an episode as a certain genre! We tried for a mixed low-fantasy adventure parody, which is strangely specific but was the only way we liked writing our incredibly vague assigned genre, “Adventure”. Our episode was Basic Straining. She wrote about 15% of this fic, starting at the dinner scene and ending with the journey montage.
> 
> The name “Twelve Stones of Ultimate Power or Whatever” is purely an inside joke and is not intended to be taken seriously, nor is it relevant to the plot. None of this is relevant at all. Just take it and go.

_ Evening of the Fifth of June, in the Year of Our Lord 1398. _

_ To His Royal Highness and Majesty and Kingliness, _

_ From a lowly but not really and actually quite awesome Lord Chris. _

_ I am pleased to know that you are keeping up with Total Drama Kingdom — a tournament of my own personal invention, if it is of any concern. In this tournament, twenty-two young questers volunteer to compete in adventures and prove themselves the kingdom’s best royal pains in the butts. At the end of every adventure, the losing team chooses one quester to send home in the Stocks of Shame, disgracing their family and all descendents. But in the end, only one will emerge, and prove him or herself worthy of the ten thousand gold pieces. _

_ Once again, I am very pleased that you’re enjoying my written summaries of each adventure! I understand that you cannot come, as you are fighting some war and are probably not having a lot of fun right now. I am very sorry, and I am humbly honored that you would put aside some of the very important military money to fund my tournament. If it would please the king, we might be able to improve the tournament if you would send more money. Please.  _

_ With all sincerity, and the humblest of humility, _

_ Lord Chris of the Isle of Wawanakwa _

* * *

In terms of days, this one wasn’t half bad — in Duncan’s opinion. Still in the game, with a couple non-enemies on his team. A new dagger he’d stolen from Lord Chris’s desk when the buffoon wasn’t looking. He lounged outside the Killer Donkeys’ cabin, carving a skull into a beam as Geoff dozed on the cobblestone steps.

Then the door flung open and Harold appeared, holding something dripping and brown. “Hey!” he yelled. “Who made a mutton sandwich out of my loincloth?”

Oh yeah. And that. 

Duncan and Geoff burst out laughing. Still scowling, Harold tried to pull the sad, greasy cloth out from between the bread...but only to fling it across the yard. The loincloth smacked onto the ground in front of a bypassing Lady Courtney, narrowly missing her carefully-polished boots. 

She screamed, then glared at Harold. “Harold!” she shrilled. “You are so totally gross!”

“No, wait! It wasn’t me!” Harold protested, but Courtney had already stormed off. So he just grumbled, “Idiots” and slammed the door.

“Sometimes, he just makes it too easy,” Geoff remarked. Duncan chuckled. 

“I hear you, man.”

Suddenly, a mighty voice thundered throughout the grounds. “LISTEN UP, YOU PLAGUE-INFESTED RATS!” boomed General Hatchet. He rode in on a stallion, or at least Duncan assumed it was a stallion; he actually didn’t know a thing about horses except that they weren’t easy to steal if you didn’t know much about horses. In response, the Killer Donkeys’ cabin door opened again, as well as the Screaming Sheeps’, and all of the questers peered out to see what the ruckus was about. Hatchet continued yelling.

“I WANT ALL QUESTERS TO REPORT TO THE COURTYARD IN FIVE MINUTES! THAT MEANS NOW, SOLDIERS, NOW!!”

The message was clear. The questers scattered, gathered up their weapons and cloaks, and scrambled up the hill towards Lord Chris’s castle. 

* * *

As soon as the remaining twelve questers filed into the courtyard, they were barraged with orders. General Hatchet was in full military dress, complete with armor, a battleaxe, and a cone which he shouted through to make his loud voice nearly deafening. 

“LINE UP AND STAND AT ATTENTION! YOU CALL THIS PROPER FORMATION?!”

The questers scrambled to a single-file line. Hatchet snatched up a thin switch and snapped it against Geoff’s knees.

“FEET TOGETHER!”

The switch next met Duncan’s crossed arms.

“ARMS DOWN!”

Devon Joseph the III — or DJ for short — stared at Hatchet in mild-to-average terror.

“EYES FORWARD!”

Heather was listing off in disinterest, examining her nails. The switch flicked to her chin.

“HEAD UP!”

Harold seemed to be doing everything wrong at once, as Hatchet snapped the switch all the way up his body. Duncan suppressed a snort.

“Oh, this is gonna be a fun day,” Gwenyth grumbled under her breath. Then, promptly, she got a faceful of Hatchet’s large yelling cone.

“WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME, SOLDIER?!”

Gwen scrambled for an explanation. “Umm…nothing?”

“THEN YOU WILL CONTINUE TO SAY NOTHING UNTIL I TELL YOU THAT YOU CAN SAY SOMETHING!”

Apparently finished, Hatchet turned sharply on his heel and strode down the line of questers. “TODAY’S ADVENTURE WILL NOT BE AN EASY ONE,” he announced, as if any of the other adventures had been easy at all. “IN FACT, I DO NOT EXPECT EVERYONE TO COME OUT ALIVE.”

Owen giggled at something, but quickly got the switch. “OW! That hurt!”

“MY ORDERS ARE TO MAKE SURE THAT ALL OF THE SERFS IN FRONT OF ME DROP OUT OF THIS ADVENTURE QUEST EXCEPT ONE. OUR QUEST IS TO TRAVEL ACROSS THE ISLE OF WAWANAKWA, WORKING AS A SINGLE ARMY UNTIL WE REACH OUR DESTINATION, THE TOWER OF DOOM AND DARKNESS. THERE, ONE OF YOU SHALL REACH THE TOP OF THE TOWER AND ACTIVATE, AND SO I QUOTE LORD CHRIS, ‘THE TWELVE STONES OF ULTIMATE POWER OR WHATEVER’. THAT QUESTER WINS IMMUNITY FOR THEIR TEAM.”

“Uh...what actually happened to Lord Chris?” Heather mumbled. Fortunately for her, Hatchet didn’t hear her over his own yelling.

“RULE NUMBER ONE. YOU WILL ADDRESS ME...AS GRAND GENERAL. HAVE YOU GOT THAT?!”

“YES GRAND GENERAL!”

“YOU WILL SLEEP WHEN I TELL YOU TO SLEEP,” continued Grand General Hatchet, turning his yelling cone on Geoff. “AND YOU WILL EAT ONLY WHEN I TELL YOU TO EAT. IS THAT CLEAR?!”

“Yes Grand General!” Geoff answered, eyes wide. 

“RULE NUMBER TWO! WHEN YOU ARE READY TO GIVE UP, YOU WILL WALK BACK TO EITHER THE COURTYARD OR THE ROYAL TENT AND RING THE BELL. WHICH BRINGS ME TO RULE NUMBER THREE. I’D LIKE TO GET ONE QUITTER BEFORE THE END OF THE FIRST DAY, AND THAT DAY WILL NOT END UNTIL SOMEONE DROPS OUT. NOW GET YOUR BUTTS DOWN TO THE DRAWBRIDGE! NOW! NOW! NOW!”

He raised the switch, and the twelve terrified questers stampeded out of the courtyard.

* * *

_ The Diary of Gwenyth Clarke of Stratford Upon Avon.  _

_ Morning of the Seventh of June, in the Year of Our Lord 1398. _

_ Okay. Whoever’s sick, twisted idea it was to put HIM in charge of this challenge, I have to say...I’m a little bit impressed. _

* * *

After a short but lively sprint down to the castle moat, the questers stood along the shore somewhat out of breath and a little more confused. There was no drawbridge anymore, only two long boards that looked as if they might span the width of the moat, if something could hold them up from underneath. 

General Hatchet strode along the shore, his armored feet clanking heavily. Thankfully, he’d lost the yelling cone, so his voice was just normal levels of absolutely deafening.

“LISTEN UP! EACH TEAM MUST STAND IN THE MOAT AND HOLD ONE HALF OF OUR NEW DRAWBRIDGE OVER THEIR HEADS. THIS IS VITAL TO OUR ADVENTURE QUEST. IF YOU DON’T HOLD THIS DRAWBRIDGE, THE WAGONS OF SUPPLIES WILL NOT BE ABLE TO LEAVE THE CASTLE. IF THEY DON’T LEAVE THE CASTLE, YOU DON’T GET TO EAT UNTIL WE REACH THE TWELVE STONES OF ULTIMATE POWER OR WHATEVER. IF I CATCH YOU TAKING YOUR HANDS OFF THE DRAWBRIDGE, YOU WILL BE ELIMINATED. AND NO ONE EATS SUPPER UNTIL SOMEONE DROPS OUT.”

Hatchet let out a small, wicked chuckle, and the questers exchanged worried looks. “Uh, Grand General?” asked Lindsay, her voice small. “Isn’t there, like, real alligators in the moat?”

“WHAT ABOUT ‘YOU MUST HOLD THE DRAWBRIDGE’ DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND, SOLDIER? NOW, DRAWBRIDGE UP!”

Moving in sync, the teams split towards the two long planks and hoisted them over their heads. Then, with Grand General Hatchet swinging the wooden switch if they lagged, they waded into the waist-deep moat, Killer Donkeys on one side, Screaming Sheep coming right next to them to make a complete drawbridge. 

It sounded harder than it really was. The planks weren’t that heavy, especially with six people on each side. A terrible rumbling sound came from the direction of the castle and all of the questers braced themselves for the wagon and horses running over the drawbridge, but when they did, it was only a little jarring. 

“This isn’t that hard,” Owen said optimistically.

“Piece of cake!” Geoff grinned.

* * *

 

Maybe they spoke too soon. Just maybe. 

The sun beat down on them, shimmering in waves above the water. Every once in a while, dark forms moved just under the surface, and someone would swear that they saw the head of an alligator surface. Every few minutes, without any warning at all, a carriage or wagon would trundle over the panels and make everyone’s wrists shake — though it came so often that a jaded Duncan began to wonder if Lord Chris was just driving random carts over for no reason except to mess with them. Up front, Courtney’s arms were visibly trembling. Someone’s stomach was growling like a bear — by the look of despair on Leshawna’s face, it was hers. 

“COME ON, YOU VERMIN!” snapped Hatchet. “IT’S ONLY BEEN THREE HOURS!”

“Looks like they miss lunch today,” commented a familiar cocky voice. Lord Chris.

“MMM HMM. GUESS THEY JUST WEREN’T HUNGRY! UNLESS SOMEONE WANTS TO QUIT NOW.”

It was a lot of talk, in Duncan’s opinion, for two men who were currently sitting casually on top of the drawbridge planks. At first, Duncan had thought it entirely unfair that the Killer Donkeys had gotten the much heavier Hatchet to sit on top of theirs, but from what he could see of Lord Chris, the man was wearing exactly as much solid metal jewelry and luxurious animal furs as always. So it was probably about the same weight.

As if on cue, another loud rumbling echoed General Hatchet, clearly from Owen’s prodigous stomach. “Don’t even think about it, Owen,” Gwen snarled. 

About a half hour later, Duncan and Geoff started entertaining themselves. Hatchet couldn’t see under his own plank, and Chris was too busy examining his own nails to do it for him, so Geoff had decided to lower his hands and go fishing.

They had been standing there so long and so still that the moat’s wildlife had taken to them. One fish was darting around Geoff’s tunic, snapping at the string. He grabbed it, looked in front of them to Harold, and smirked back to Duncan. 

“Time to land that fish,” Duncan whispered, both of them knowing exactly what to do.

In one swift movement, Geoff reached into the water, pulled at the waist of Harold’s leggings, and dropped the squirming fish right in. Harold responded with a disgusted yelp, letting go of the plank. It took him a second to get the fish out and another second to figure out who did it. “Idiots,” he grumbled.

General Hatchet’s face suddenly appeared, peering down the side of the drawbridge. “IS THERE A PROBLEM DOWN HERE?!”

Harold replied with a very guilty “No” but nothing else, and Duncan and Geoff were left to laugh. Honestly, it was so easy to pick on Harold, and he never said anything either. He probably was having fun too, that must’ve been why. So Duncan and Geoff said nothing, just snickered to each other...which was how they never saw Harold’s fingers tightening around the edges of the plank.

* * *

 

Night fell, and Owen fell asleep. 

The other questers figured that this would be the breaking point, but Owen somehow knew how to sleep while standing up and holding onto a drawbridge at the same time. And Hatchet had no rules against dozing so long as they kept doing their jobs.

Hatchet wasn’t even watching anymore. Chris had gone inside and Hatchet had built his own little fire on the shore, currently telling them the fifth war story of the hour.

“Twenty-five of us went into that bog. Only five came back out,” he said, for once in the day not yelling.

Gwen yawned. “What war were you in anyway?”

“DID I ASK YOU TO SPEAK?!” And he was back to yelling. “BECAUSE I DIDN’T ASK YOU TO SPEAK!”

“Whatever.” Gwen rolled her eyes. “He so wasn’t in a war.”

“Guys…” Lindsay spoke up, her voice trembling.  “I — I can’t do this anymore.” Defeated, she dropped her hands and climbed out of the moat, her gown sopping wet. “I have no more feeling in my arms…”

She dragged herself past Hatchet, whose face was inscrutable. Then he grinned. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a quitter!”

“Don’t do it, Lindsay!” Owen yelled.

But Lindsay couldn’t help it. Ashamed, she trudged inside the castle gates, found the courtyard, and wearily knocked her head against the bell. 

The Screaming Sheep dropped their side of the drawbridge, groaning; the Killer Donkeys let theirs down in victory. In the courtyard, Lindsay just stared at her feet. “Listen,” said General Hatchet softly, coming up next to her, “you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Lindsay looked up, and then Hatchet finished it, lifting the yelling cone to his mouth, “EXCEPT BEING A LITTLE BABY THAT LET YOUR TEAM DOWN! THE REST OF YOU: TAKE THE ROAD A HALF MILE NORTH TO THE LEAKY BOWL TAVERN. DINNER AWAITS.”

“Sweet Mary, THANK YOU!” Owen cried.

* * *

In each of the questers’ opinions, the forlorn and waterlogged half-mile trek to the Leaky Bowl Tavern was the longest any of them had walked in their lives. Or, in Owen’s case, full-on sprinted. 

But even then, the cost wasn’t exactly worth their reward. As the weary questers trudged into the tavern, famished and exhausted, General Hatchet was right there watching them — and standing right next to three ominous-looking closed barrels. Not a morsel of food was in sight, despite Owen’s restless searching.

“ALRIGHT MAGGOTS, OPEN YOUR EARS!” Hatchet yelled loud as always, the concept of an “inside voice” obviously foreign to him. “YOU GOT TEN MINUTES TO EAT BEFORE NIGHT TRAINING BEGINS, SO GET TO IT!” 

This immediately triggered multiple groans and many more complaints of disappointment. “Aw, no!” “Night training?” “No way!” 

“Um, excuse me, Grand General,” Gwen spoke up. “Where’s the food?”

An uneasy feeling swept over the questers as General Hatchet gestured to the three closed barrels. “You’re looking at it.” he replied with an unnerving chuckle. 

Owen, eager as always to begin a meal, was the first to summon enough courage to lift the lid from one of the barrels and peer down at its contents. Inside were stale and crumbled bits of bread half-soaked in some mysterious fluid, wilted or bruised chunks of various vegetables, with no small portion of bones and what appeared to be butcher’s scraps all thrown into this conglomerate of organic material. “This is the leftover garbage from this morning’s breakfast,” Owen told no one in particular, a tone of disappointment easily heard in his voice.

“DARN RIGHT! When you’re at war, you take what you can get!” Hatchet half-yelled.

Owen was still persistent in finding any bit of food he could, reaching into the barrel and taking out a strange lump of bread, meat, and a bone. He examined it for a moment, before blowing on it out of caution and shoving it in his mouth all the same.

“Well! I can see you’ve got this under control,” Lord Chris remarked with his typical grin, looking over at General Hatchet. “I’m off to the royal tent. Coming?” 

Hatchet followed as Chris left the room for the choice dining. “Serve me up some of that!” 

Meanwhile, the questers had all congregated with some disgust around the barrels to see what they could find. Gwen held up a vile string of what might’ve once been an apple core. She sighed. 

“Oh, I am NOT eating this!” Heather announced to everyone, who for the most part probably didn’t care. 

“Me neither!” Courtney agreed, setting her plate aside. She might’ve tolerated gray mush for the past few weeks, but she had resolved to never stoop so low as to eat literal garbage. Stubborn as always… Duncan couldn’t help but smile as he passed by.

“Don’t care for today’s specials, princess?” he said to her with a smirk as he brought a glass from the kitchen. 

Courtney scoffed at this. “I am going to be duchess someday, and no one is going to bring up a record of me eating garbage!” 

Sitting alone at a table holding an empty plate was Harold, who Duncan approached alongside Geoff. “Hey… Harold?” He looked up at them while Duncan continued. “We felt really bad about the whole fish in your leggings incident thing, so here. We found you some hot cocoa.” He handed the glass to Harold, who accepted it eagerly. 

“Hey, thanks!” It took only a moment for Harold to take a large swig of it, before his eyes widened in utter surprise and he spat out the drink. “That’s not hot cocoa!” 

Duncan and Geoff both attempted to hold back muffled snickering. “Oh, oh, my mistake dude,” Duncan told him. “We must have confused it with the ditch water!” 

“You guys are so immature!” It was Courtney again, who had disapprovingly watched the whole prank go down. “I hope you’re proud of yourselves.” 

Duncan just showed his typical smarmy grin with a chuckle, facing the frustrated duke’s daughter. “Okay, look. I know you like me. He knows you like me. Everyone knows it! So here’s a tip. If you wanna kiss me, I might just let you.” 

“And to think I actually thought you were NICE!” 

These words bit a little deeper than Duncan would’ve liked, and he tried to hide his discomfort with a laugh. “Me? Nice? Yeah, right.”

Geoff looked up from a stale bread slice he was gnawing at. “Why’d you think that?” 

“Nevermind,” Courtney responded, holding up a hand. “I was wrong, he’s just as gross and annoying as he wants you to believe. Enjoy your garbage!” With that, she left. But thank goodness, she caught Duncan’s drift. The game was tough enough without anyone spilling secrets…

Geoff and Harold looked over at Duncan, who just smiled nervously.

* * *

Night training was exactly as tiring as they expected. The questers were ordered to swiftly pack up camp, load it onto the carts, while carrying their own personal belongings with them on foot. And after all that was done, they were off.

General Hatchet led in the front on his stallion as always, with the questers following a small ways behind. They trekked through the night forest on an overgrown path crisscrossed with ivy, branches, and at one point a fallen tree, as if the flora itself was attempting to halt their journey. 

Time seemed to enter a no-passing zone, as every minute was like an hour and every hour like a day. The lush yet shadowed woods around them gave way to rockier ground, where patches of scraggly brush clung to the path, which was growing steeper by the second. Before they knew it, the questers found themselves crossing narrow mountain paths, straddling next to deep gorges that stretched down past view. The barren mountainside was illuminated only by the torches by Lord Chris’s carriage, and the moon splashing its silver rays across the cold, harsh stone all in gray… except for the occasional grass, clinging to life against all odds in the scattered crumbled stone.

As that moon crawled across the sky, the passage of time led to the gradual flattening of the terrain, up until the mountains dissolved to dunes of sand sweeping across all in sight. The desert stretched around them, and though the going was easier, it made the questers no less weary. Their meager meal of scraps and trash was hardly sufficient to fuel them in the hike across this land of sand. 

The journey was now more monotonous than anything through this endless landscape, but when the silhouette of a forest was in sight, they could do nothing to speed up. Eventually, after a considerable while of more walking, the boughs of the tree canopy covered the sky above… yet no trail was visible in this forest. 

Now their exhaustion made the going slower than ever. Nobody dared say a word, however, as General Hatchet would look back at the questers from time to time. 

That was until Duncan straight up left their little “path” and sat down on the ground. The rest of them immediately stopped too with relieved sighs. 

“Duncan, what are you doing?” Courtney hissed over at him. 

When Hatchet caught sight of the act of defiance, Duncan spoke before he could. “One of us drops out, we’re done for the day.”

“WE’RE DONE WHEN I SAY WE’RE DONE!” Hatchet roared back. “NOW DROP AND GIVE ME TWENTY!” 

Duncan, rolling his eyes, obliged. 

“ANYONE ELSE GOT ANYTHING THEY WANNA SAY?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Gwen raised her hand. “Can I go to the bathroom?

* * *

And that’s how Gwen found herself standing in an abandoned outhouse in the middle of the woods with a broom and dustpan. “Not exactly what I had in mind.”

* * *

That night, they set up camp in a clearing, only for Hatchet to pass out blank scrolls and quills. “For your next challenge,” he said, “you will complete a three-hundred word scroll about how much you love me.” Despite the fact that they were all clustered around him within a ten-foot radius, he reverted quickly into yelling. “ANYONE WHO FALLS ASLEEP OR FAILS TO COMPLETE THE CHALLENGE WILL BE ELIMINATED! YOU HAVE UNTIL THE HOURGLASS RUNS OUT! BEGIN!”

He pulled a giant hourglass out of nowhere, flipped it so the sand was in the top bulb, and slammed it down onto a treestump. Immediately, quills started moving.

As soon as the last grain of sand fell into the bottom bulb, Hatchet reappeared in the clearing. Everyone was exhausted. Trent and DJ had dozed off so fast that they were still sitting up. Harold was still scribbling furiously as Hatchet stomped forward and took the paper. 

Duncan, surprisingly, looked very proud of his scroll. Puzzled, Hatchet picked up his scroll and began to read. 

“ ‘I love Grand General Hatchet, because he is very, very, very, very, very...very...very...very...very…very, very, very...very...very…” His face twisted up in fury. “THIS IS JUST ONE SENTENCE WITH TWELVE INCHES OF VERYS IN BETWEEN!”

“It’s three hundred words exactly,” said Duncan. “You can count them if you want.”

Hatchet stormed off, but only to slip in a pile of drool by Owen. “WIPE UP THAT DROOL, YOU LITTLE BABY!”

Next, he turned his fury on Trent and DJ. He stomped the ground so hard that Trent jumped a couple feet in the air. DJ still dozed. “YOU TWO SLACKERS ARE OUT. THE REST OF YOU, GET TO BED AND BE READY TO SET OFF AT SUNRISE.”

Duncan pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and pointed to a drool stain on Hatchet’s cheek. “Uh, missed a spot there, General.”

General Hatchet did not take this well. “BOY! DO YOU WANT TO RUN FIFTY LAPS AROUND THE BOGS OF DESPAIR RIGHT NOW?!”

“N — no thanks!” cut in Courtney, pulling Duncan back by the shoulders. “He’s going straight to bed. AREN’T YOU?”

The last two words were punctuated with a searing glare. She pulled him aside.

“What are you trying to do?! Get eliminated?”

“I didn’t know you cared,” said Duncan.

“I DON’T,” Courtney snapped. “I just don’t want to lose this challenge! So stop being such a mess-up, and do what you’re told for once, okay?!”

She strutted away, nose in the air. Duncan smirked and looked at Geoff.

“She wants me,” he said.

“No dope,” Geoff agreed.

* * *

The next morning, the remaining seven questers set off while it was still dark (barely allowing them three hours of sleep). After two miles through complete wilderness, they emerged into a mudswamp to find a surprise sign of civilization — a complex set of walls, rope swings, tubes, and swinging axes across the swamp. Probably to avoid dirtying his royal robes, Chris had vanished again. 

“SOMETIMES IN WAR, YOUR ARMY WILL HAVE TO CROSS TREACHEROUS GROUNDS LIKE THESE UNDER A TIME CONSTRAINT. YOU WILL ALL RUN THIS COURSE UNTIL YOU CAN ALL COMPLETE IT IN UNDER ONE MINUTE,” said General Hatchet. Duncan was very pointedly looking somewhere else, so Hatchet leaned in close enough that Duncan could feel the spittle flying at his face. “AM. I. MAKING. MY. SELF. CLEAR?”

“Crystal,” Duncan smiled sweetly. He felt like someone was glaring at him, and raised an eyebrow in her direction. Courtney. Of course.

“If you lose this for us,” she hissed, “I’m going to make you so miserable!”

“GO, MAGGOTS, GO!” Hatchet screamed. 

They hit the mud at full speed. All weariness pushed aside, the questers gave the obstacle course their full attention. Gwen jumped over the wooden wall easily and Duncan followed, passing Leshawna, struggling to hold to the top. Uncertain, Heather scrambled through a wooden tube...only for Owen to try it and get quite certainly stuck. The rest of the mud-splattered questers pressed onwards with pounding hearts, ducking their heads under the swinging axes, steeling themselves to rope-swing across a deeper vat of mud.

Duncan, on his third try, stopped right before the tubes to see Harold scramble over the edge of the wall. Then in a glorious display of windmilling arms, Harold fell off and facefirst into the mud. When he sat up, he opened his mouth and spewed a vile concoction of vomit and mud.

“Uh, General Crazy,” Duncan called Hatchet over, “we’ve got a situation here.”

“Too...much...mud,” Harold grunted, coughing up another spray of mud-vomit.

“Return to the royal tent, ring the bell, and report to the infirmary. Your tour of duty is finished,” said Hatchet, pulling Harold up by the collar. The kid trudged off, and Duncan passed a smirk to Geoff. 

“Wow. Poor guy,” he remarked, but only to get a faceful of Hatchet.

“BACK ON THE COURSE, SOLDIERS, NOW! ONE FALSE MOVE, AND I’LL BE ON YOU LIKE STINK ON A GONG FARMER!”

Geoff skittered away, clearly not wanting to face off against the Hatchet, but Duncan lingered behind. Eh. Now that Harold was gone, might as well devote more time into pissing off the Hatchet.

So instead, Duncan gave the widest grin he could fit on his face and saluted. “I look forward to it, sir!”

* * *

They kept pressing on. No one had made it under one minute yet, and filled with frustration, the questers all threw themselves at the course with boiling vitriol. Owen made a bad move and the climbing wall fell on top of him. Gwen fell flat on her face in the mud. Heather’s ankle had somehow gotten tangled in the rope swing and she hung upside-down, fuming. 

In front of Duncan, Leshawna dropped to her knees to army-crawl under the swinging axes. Suddenly, she stopped, stuck in particularly gooey mud, and began to sink. Of course, Duncan had seen the sinkhole right there, but what was the fun in warning anybody about it? Smirking, he crawled right around her, reveling in the thrill as the razor-sharp axeblades just barely brushed his bleached crest of hair. 

“Fallen soldier, I salute you!” he announced...just before meeting eyes with General Hatchet’s mud-splattered sabatons. 

“YOU JUST BOUGHT YOURSELF TWENTY MORE PUSHUPS!” he snapped. But Duncan wouldn’t protest. Oh, this man liked protest. What he hated was compliance.

“Thank you!” Duncan smiled. And, in a burst of absolute sass, he pushed himself up and gave Hatchet a loud, smacking kiss on the nose. 

In hindsight, Duncan wasn’t really sure what he’d been expecting. It certainly wasn’t Hatchet’s eyes nearly popping out of his sockets. And it probably wasn’t the very prominent bulge of the already-bulging vein in Hatchet’s forehead. And it definitely wasn’t the furious growl, growing steadily louder like a circus bear on the loose.

“I think you might’ve pushed him over the edge, bro,” whispered Geoff.

“I...think you’re right,” replied Duncan, his eyes wide. 

Hatchet slammed his foot down, coming within a few inches of Duncan. He was so mad that his eyes were unfocused, and his nostrils flared like an angry bull.

“ONE NIGHT. SOLITARY CONFINEMENT. IN THE HUNTER’S LODGE.”

Several people gasped, clearly understanding what that meant. Duncan didn’t. Nor did he care. “Big deal.” He shrugged. “How scary can it be?”

* * *

The answer, of course, was “very”.

The hunter’s lodge was tucked away in the woods, hidden behind overgrowth and fallen trees. It clearly hadn’t been used in a very long time, but the previous owner had made an effort to make sure someone had been his mark — if the stuffed animal heads hung up around the insides were any indication. It was no warmer inside than out. The huge tree trunk, cleaving its way halfway through the roof, made sure of that. There was no firewood for the long-dead hearth; not even a candle to light. The only respite from the darkness came in from a shattered window, the moonlight glinting off the rusted weapons scattered throughout the lodge.

There was no furniture except a moldy hay-stuffed mattress and a crate. Duncan chose the crate, sinking down with a sigh.

“Should’ve kept my big mouth shut,” he muttered.

A wolf howled in the distance, and a shudder went down Duncan’s spine.

* * *

Courtney sat around the fire with the other questers, staring between her bowl of mush and the lodge a hundred feet off. It was barely visible in the darkness, so it should’ve been easier to ignore. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Duncan. He hadn’t been allowed dinner. Not that it was pleasant anyway, but she could only imagine what it was like inside the lodge...cold, lonely, with an empty stomach and no one to talk to…

Hatchet left for the royal tent with Lord Chris, and once they were out of sight Courtney stood up. “I’m...going to check on him.”

“You like him,” Geoff smirked.

Ugh! As if. Courtney glared. “I do NOT!”

He just gave a stupid grin back. “Yes you do.”

Now he was just asking for a debate. “Not only do I not like him, I can’t stand him! He’s…rude, and rebellious, and totally annoying! I’m...gonna go check on him.”

Her face flushing, Courtney strode off.

* * *

_ The Diary of Geoff Brickden of Davenport,  _

_ Evening of the Eighth of June, in the Year of Our Lord 1398. _

_ She likes him. _

* * *

Courtney grabbed a candle from her pack and slipped off into the darkness, balancing her bowl of mush in the other hand. Gingerly, she ducked under the crumbling boughs of a dead tree and nudged the lodge door open with her foot.

Inside was a darkness so deep she could almost feel it. “Hello? Duncan?” she called.

Then she was met by a cheerful but faint whistle, and when she held the candle up, she saw Duncan standing in the middle of the lodge, sweeping the floor cheerfully. Probably the first time she’d ever seen him clean something. When he turned around, he gave a smarmy grin and gasped in feigned surprise. As if he hadn’t heard her bumbling through the woods towards this little hut. “Oh, Princess!”

“I wish you’d stop calling me that. I’m a duchess, mind you.” She stepped inside anyway. The smarmy grin grew wider.

“So, come to claim that kiss?”

She chose to ignore that, and held out the bowl of mush. “Even pigs deserve a meal.”

Duncan regarded the greyish slime. “Mmm...no thanks, I’ll stick with the gutted deer head.”

Courtney couldn’t help but giggle a little, and she made her way to a crate to sit down. Duncan pulled up a wooden bucket and accepted the bowl of mush. “Yeah, well, that’s all General would serve us after our pathetic performance on the obstacle course.”

Duncan dug the spoon into the mush, then his eyes widened as he found it very much stuck. When he raised the spoon, the mush and bowl stayed firmly attached. A thought occurred to Courtney and she looked back at Duncan. 

“Why do you egg General off like that? You know you’re going to get in trouble.”

Duncan tossed the mush behind him and raised an eyebrow. “Why are you so uptight all the time?”

“I am NOT uptight!” sniffed Courtney, standing up straight. Duncan followed suit, but he was still slouching. Ugh. 

“Psh. You always follow the rules,” he countered.

“Well — you always have to break them!”

“Only the ones I want to.” Duncan gave another smarmy grin — oh, he was good at those. Infuriatingly so. He even added a little wink. Courtney was about to fire back, but then a thought occurred to her. She wasn’t helping her own case at all. She sighed. 

“Okay, so...maybe I do follow the rules. I guess that makes me a big, uptight LOSER in your books, right?”

She was expecting a “no, of course not, Lady Courtney”, or something of the sort. Instead he just said, “Maybe.” She groaned, ever more frustrated. 

“So then, why do you follow them?”

“Because NOT following them gets you thrown into a creepy abandoned lodge!” Courtney gestured violently to the aforementioned scene, making Duncan inadvertently step back. It was then that Courtney knew she’d lost. Duncan shifted his weight, leaning back closer to her, the grin returning once again. Her heart skipped a beat. 

“But I’m in the creepy abandoned lodge with you, aren’t I?”

Now the flutter in her stomach wasn’t just anger. Inadvertently, a smile rose to her mouth. Duncan saw it.

“Feel like ditching this stuff for a meal fit for a king?”

“Are you kidding? All I’ve had for two days is this gruel.” Courtney sighed. “But General will never give it to us.”

“See? Now that’s the problem with your thinking!” Duncan exclaimed. “The trick...is to not ask for it.”

Courtney wasn’t really sure where he was going with that. “Do you...have some on you?”

“No. But I happen to know where to find it. It will involve breaking QUITE a few rules, though. Are you in?”

She hesitated. She really didn’t want to; if she was caught, word would surely go out to her father that the future duchess was stealing food with a common petty thief. But her stomach really was empty, and she hadn’t had nutrition for so long…

After all, necessity was the mother of invention.

“Let’s do it,” she grinned, and shook Duncan’s hand. 

* * *

 

Out of all the “adventure quests” they’d had, the raid on the royal tent was, by far, the hardest and most nerve-wracking. Lord Chris’s specially-catered, king-funded dining tent lay a good quarter mile away from the questers’ campground, in the middle of an open clearing where it would be very hard to sneak up to it. Courtney and Duncan both agreed that it would be very unfortunate to have any guards outside of the tent, but there were none at all. Of course, with Duncan presumably locked in the hunter’s lodge, they’d let their guard down.

Jokes on them.

They held branches in front of them to sneak up to the tent, then carefully lifted a tent flap. “Slowly...slowly...crawl…” Duncan mouthed and led the way in, pulling his cloak hood over his head. Courtney followed suit, and they entered into the well-lit tent. Further off, on the other side of the tent, Hatchet was emotionally rambling about the same nonexistent war to Lord Chris. The two miscreants were hidden behind a long table...filled with food.

It was glorious. Like the angels of heaven above had come to earth and were filling their nostrils. The food was so warm it was still steaming, which made no sense because they were in the wilderness and Chris didn’t exactly have a chef following him around in a tiny gourmet kitchen stuffed in the back of one of the wagons (unless he did? That man was strange). Whatever the reason, it was tantalizing. There were all sorts of pies and stews and casks of fine wine and even a roast pig with an apple in its mouth. 

Burning with excitement, Duncan and Courtney sneaked around the back of the table, snatching items of food and stuffing them in the knapsack. “If we get caught, we are so dead!” Courtney whispered, just as Lord Chris said, “I mean, come on. I am nothing without my beard” and Hatchet replied, “Amen, brother!”

Duncan chuckled under his breath, holding a tub of gravy close to his chest. “Are you sure you wanna go through with this?”

What kind of question was that? She was already in up to her neck, with a knapsack full of a feast. “Heck yes! This is the most fun I’ve had here yet!”

For good measure, she pulled out a little something she’d stolen from the hunter’s lodge — a taxidermied squirrel, stinking from its years. Giggling, she set it in the center of the dining table, replacing a meat pie. “A little present,” she whispered. “Courtesy of the Killer Donkeys.”

Duncan snickered and put his hand on her shoulder. “Now you’re learning.” He took a plate of truffles just for good measure, and they slipped victoriously out of the tent with their contraband.

* * *

Ten minutes later, the questers all clustered around their fire once again, this time actually eating. The stolen food was spread around them and in their hands. 

“And what is with all those lame war stories?” Gwen crowed, before chomping into a leg of lamb. “He is so demented!”

Leshawna nodded and licked the remains of a berry pie from her fingers. “Girl. These nails were not meant for combat training, know what I’m sayin’?”

“Seriously, if I wanted to be a knight, I would’ve,” said Bridgette.

A collective gasp filled the clearing, and everyone turned to the Killer Donkeys’ tent. “Ugh, guys, gross!” said Harold, and held up his unraveled bedroll. The fabric was smeared with something brown and greasy in the shape of a smiley face. While everyone groaned and told Harold to get that out of their faces, Duncan laughed with Geoff.

“Now, see, that’s a good waste of gravy!” said Duncan. 

Meanwhile, Courtney was reaching towards her third full cherry pie, and Bridgette looked on in concern. “Okay, I think you’ve had enough,” she said, but Courtney didn’t want to be done. 

“Oh, oh no, just one more!” she cried, before stuffing her face full of honey and cherry sauce. Then she promptly let out an explosive burp and hunched over. “Oh...yeah...yeah, that one was a mistake…”

She then scrambled up and deserted the fire, holding her hand over her mouth. A second later, everyone heard the wretched sounds of vomiting, and Leshawna and Gwen laughed.

Duncan found her in the woods, hunched over an unfortunate bush. “So the princess has a dark side,” he remarked, leaning against a tree. Fatigued from her stomach’s violent protest, Courtney pushed herself up and wiped her mouth with a handkerchief. 

“Okay...that was so gross,” she murmured. Duncan offered her a cask of water and she gladly accepted, using it to wash out her mouth. “But it was like...once I did something bad, it was so much fun I just wanted more!”

Tauntingly, Duncan caressed her damp cheek, wiping the water off with his thumb. “Well, you could always give me that kiss. That’d be pretty bad.”

She ruffled his hair playfully. “Ugh. You’re still a petty criminal. And I’m still a duchess.”

“Fine,” he smirked. “Enjoy a gravy-less life.”

“Thanks. Enjoy the dungeons.”

“I will.”

Neither of them expected it. But adrenaline ran high that night, both of them still practically trembling with it, and before either of them knew it Courtney spun around and kissed Duncan right on the lips. 

When they returned to the campground, both blushing, Geoff and DJ pinned Duncan down right away. “Yes! Dude! You just scored the duchess!” Geoff congratulated him. Duncan had never felt more pleased about himself. Courtney sat down across from him and passed him a smarmy grin just like his own.

“Told you she wanted me,” he said.

But it wasn’t the end. From the Killer Donkeys’ tent, someone was watching. Still stinging from shame, Harold gasped, before narrowing his eyes. 

Suddenly, the campground was thrown in upheaval, as the sound of a stallion’s hooves clattered over the hill. Questers scrambled to hide their contraband. Hatchet, astride his horse, crested the hill and raised his wooden cone. 

“ATTENTION REMAINING QUESTERS! THE FINAL STAGE OF YOUR ADVENTURE QUEST BEGINS TOMORROW MORNING AT SUNRISE, WHEN WE WILL LEAVE CAMP AND TRAVEL TO THE TOWER OF DOOM AND DARKNESS. YOU WILL THEN COMPETE TO REACH THE TWELVE STONES OF ULTIMATE POWER OR WHATEVER, AND WIN OR LOSE THIS CHALLENGE. AND IF I CATCH A SINGLE STRAGGLER, YOU ANSWER TO ME!”

* * *

The next morning, the six remaining questers set off as soon as the sun crested the horizon. Apparently, like all good menacing towers, the Tower of Doom and Darkness was located at the top of an active volcano, surrounded in ominous clouds of smoke, and signaled by a razor-sharp black spire that pierced the sky. It sent shivers down the questers’ spines as they trekked up the rough mountain paths, their swords and shields on their backs.

“WHEN YOU’RE A KNIGHT, YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN ENEMIES WILL ATTACK YOU! YOUR BLADE MUST BE AT THE READY AT ALL TIMES!” shouted Hatchet, despite the fact that the questers were following less than a few feet behind him. 

“My blade’s always at the ready...for you,” whispered Duncan to Courtney. She snickered and punched him playfully on the arm when Hatchet wasn’t looking. 

It was night by the time they reached the top of the volcano, the only light being the lava moat that they had just crossed via a rope bridge. Sulfur was thick in the air and all of them sweat from the oppressive heat, and from the omnipresent dread as they looked up at the tower. They stood at the arched iron doors of the entrance, gargoyles scowling down from the terraces above. 

When Hatchet stomped up to the entrance, his boots slamming against the stone so hard that the ground shook, the doors opened slowly and let the nervous questers in. No enemies swarmed out, but as they stepped inside the tower they all let out a simultaneous gasp. 

The tower, though still as a statue on the outside, buzzed with movement. At the very top of the spire, there was an incredible, pulsing blue light, bright enough to light the entire inside of the tower. Underneath it and over the questers were a complex set of what seemed to be giant poles, whirling around a column in the center of the tower. None of the questers could tell what propelled the poles to spin like that, as the tower was otherwise empty, but it soon became clear what they were supposed to do with them.

“WHAT YOU ARE SEEING,” announced Hatchet, “IS AN ANCIENT TYPE OF SECURITY USED TO PROTECT AGAINST ENEMY INVADERS. THE ONLY WAY TO REACH THE TWELVE STONES OF ANCIENT POWER OR WHATEVER IS BY USING THE POLES. THEY WILL TAKE YOU TO THE TOP...IF YOU CAN HOLD ON THAT LONG, AND IF YOU CAN SURVIVE. THE POLES ARE WEIGHTED, AND WILL SEND A LETHAL CUTTING BLADE YOUR WAY IF THEY FEEL EXTRA WEIGHT.

“BECAUSE OF THIS, YOU CANNOT STAND ON THE POLES. YOU CANNOT CLING TIGHT TO THEM LIKE A SCARED LITTLE BABY. YOU WILL BE DECAPITATED. IN ORDER TO REACH THE TOP VIA THE POLES, YOU MUST HANG UPSIDE-DOWN FROM YOUR LEGS AND PRAY THAT THE BLADES DO NOT CUT YOUR KNEES. NOW GET GOING, VERMIN! THE STONES AREN’T GOING TO WAIT FOREVER!”

Terrified of the poles, but even more scared of the Hatchet, the questers scrambled to the lowest spinning poles and leapt onto them, dropping from their legs and hanging upside-down. The importance of avoiding the blades soon became quite clear, as the rush of wind past their legs send shivers down their spines. Each of them praying to make it out alive, the questers hung to their poles and spun up, higher into the tower.

“BY NOW,” Hatchet called up to them, “THE BLOOD HAS BEGUN RUSHING TO YOUR HEAD. THE NEXT STAGE IS NAUSEA, FOLLOWED BY DIZZINESS AND A FLUSHED APPEARANCE AS THE BLOOD BEGINS TO POOL IN YOUR EYES… YOU MAY EXPERIENCE FAINTING SPELLS…”

Next to Courtney, Duncan suddenly dropped. He was ten feet up and got caught on an empty spinning pole on the way down, rolling to a stop on the stone floor below. “Duncan!” Courtney cried, and Bridgette (who had long since dropped out, but came along with the medical kit) rushed to him. 

“It’s okay! He’s alright!” she called up to Courtney. Relieved, Courtney tried to give Bridgette a smile, but they were now fifteen feet up and starting to get dizzy.

She tried to think. Hatchet never said she couldn’t hold onto the pole with her hands. So she did, and seeing her example, Geoff followed. Then, on the next pole, Gwen noticed and held on with her hands as well. Owen tried, but let out a fart so loud it echoed in the tower. Next to him, Heather grimaced. 

“Okay, that’s it. I’m done!” she shouted, and nimbly dropped down from the pole. She rolled on the ground as she landed and stood up proudly. 

Promptly, Owen dropped right on top of her, crushing her.

Courtney wasn’t sure whether it was Heather being crushed, or just the dizziness Hatchet had talked about, but she suddenly broke out in a spasm of giggles. Inadvertently, she let go and tumbled twenty feet down, managing to avoid being hit by spinning poles and landing on the floor relatively unharmed. She was still giggling, even as Hatchet stomped up to her and looked at her in disappointment.

“I expected more out of you, soldier,” he said disapprovingly.

She could never be sure what came over her — only that it felt good. “Grand General, I just have one thing to say to you,” she snickered. He raised an eyebrow.

“And what might that be?”

“You REALLY need to take a chill pill!” She burst into full laughter, and Hatchet’s blood pressure shot through the roof. Even Gwen and Geoff, who were forty feet in the air, heard it, and stared down in absolute shock. Only Duncan and Courtney were laughing.

“Yeah! Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Duncan said, and put his hand over Courtney’s shoulder. Daringly, she leaned against him and put her hand in the small of his back before calling to the two questers still in the air.

“Okay, Geoffy, it’s all up to you!”

“You got this, Gwen!” called Owen.

“Oh yeah,” Gwen yelled. “I can hang here all day.”

“Rock on, sister!” Geoff pumped his fist. “I LIVE for the headrush! It...feels...so good…”

Ironically, he trailed off, and then slipped. One pole hit him on the way down but he didn’t even react, and Owen caught him just in time. He was out like a light. 

“It looks like we have ourselves a winner,” said Hatchet, looking up. Far above them, the questers could just barely make out Gwen’s silhouette against the blue light, clambering off the pole and onto the platform. A minute later, the light flashed red, then bright blue again, and then white, and everyone heard Gwen’s voice whooping in excitement.

* * *

A day later, the disgraced six members of the Killer Donkeys gathered in the courtyard around a lighted brazier. Bridgette, Harold, Courtney, Duncan, Geoff, and DJ sat before Lord Chris, who held a silver platter with five round river stones on it.

“I only have five stones on my plate,” announced Chris. “And these stones represent the questers who will continue to be questers here.”

Courtney rolled her eyes. Chris just had to go through the rules every single time...even though they all knew how it was going to go down. Someone useless like Harold would get booted off because they did nothing productive except be gross...after all, who would vote Courtney off this time? She’d helped them all. She had stolen food for them. Duncan, too; he was guaranteed to stay. Nobody could be mad at them. They were basically immune already. She passed Duncan a knowing smile, as if saying telepathically, “Oh, please, just get it over with so we can go to bed.”

“You’ve all cast your scrolls in the Confession Chest,” said Chris. “If I do not call your name, you must immediately put yourself in the Stocks of Shame, catch the Wagon of Losers, and go home. And you can’t come back. EVER.”

A silence passed over the questers. 

“Duncan.”

“Yeah!” He pumped his fist, and went up to get his rock. Four left.

“DJ.”

Duncan whooped and stood up as well. Three.

“Bridgette.”

Two.

“Geoff.”

One. Everything went dead silent. Courtney looked at Harold, and smirked arrogantly. 

“Questers,” said Chris solemnly, “this is the final stone of the night.”

And Courtney’s name would be called. She knew it. She was okay. She knew it — 

“Harold.”

Her heart nearly stopped. “WHAT?” she cried, shooting to her feet. “You guys voted for HAROLD over me?!”

It was impossible. She couldn’t believe it. And judging by the betrayed looks on the other questers’ faces, they couldn’t either. Because it WAS impossible! All of these people liked her. She wasn’t uptight and prissy anymore! She was a troublemaker — she was their FRIEND! It was impossible!

“Yes, yes, it’s always a shock,” said Chris, clearly unimpressed by the outburst. 

“This is impossible!” she shot back. “I demand a recount!”

Duncan stepped forward, clearly just as bewildered as Courtney. “Seriously, dude! I know for a FACT that there were three of us that didn’t vote her off!”

But Chris didn’t seem to care. He just snapped his fingers and General Hatchet appeared, pushing DJ and Geoff aside like they were annoying flies. Hatchet grabbed one of Courtney’s arms and Chris took the other, and even though she kicked and struggled, they dragged her towards the awaiting pair of stocks. 

“I DO NOT CONCEDE! I DO NOT CONCEDE!” Courtney screamed as the wooden stocks locked around her neck and wrists. “I was your only hope! I AM A DUCHESS IN TRAINING!” 

But nobody listened. Hatchet lifted her off the ground — cape, stocks, and all — letting her kick and flail more. “Let go of me!” she shouted, but just before she was thrown into the back of the awaiting Wagon of Shame. The nameless driver spurred the horse on, and the wagon began trundling out of the gates, taking Courtney with. “You are going to hear from my father! He is the highest duke in the northern lands!”

“Courtney, wait!” Duncan cried. He ran after the wagon, something in his clutched hands. “I made this for you!”

Jogging to keep up with the wagon, he showed her the figurine — a skull carved out of wood. “Duncan,” she gasped, delighted, then did a double take. “Okay, this is a little weird and creepy, but…I love it! I’ll never forget you!”

Teary-eyed, he placed it into her hand and she clasped it tight. The wagon sped up and trundled over the drawbridge, leaving Duncan behind. And with a tight throat and heavy heart, they waved to each other, wondering if they would ever see the other again. 

* * *

_ The Diary of Harold Emerson of Duncaster, _

_ Midnight of the Eleventh of June, in the Year of Our Lord 1398. _

_ I have received the last stone tonight. I regard myself very lucky that I had this opportunity. It was just the coincidence I needed to show up that vile, loathsome, mangy beast of a petty thief, who has tormented and wrought me so much that he forced my hand — _

Harold crumpled the page before he could finish the sentence, and tossed it into the smoldering brazier. At this time of night, he was alone in the courtyard. Someone who saw him up would assume he was simply reading to help fall asleep, or just being “weird” like he normally was. They never suspected him. Never thought that he would fight back.

Well, they were fools. That’s what they were.

He could still feel the excitement from just a few hours before, when he sneaked into Lord Chris’s office and stole the Confession Chest from his desk. The cheap lock was no match for his trusty lockpick, and it wasn’t hard in the least to forge Courtney’s name in three different signatures. Not six. Courtney wouldn’t vote herself off, and if he didn’t include Duncan’s true vote as well, Chris might grow suspicious that the votes had been tampered. No, he only needed to change the votes of Bridgette, DJ, and Geoff. Four votes against Courtney was all they needed. 

Or all he needed. 

They thought they were so funny. But now, it was time for them to know how it felt for someone else to mess with their love life. In the present, Harold smiled, dropped the crumpled page in the brazier, and pulled out a new sheet as he watched the old one burn. 

_ The Diary of Harold Emerson of Duncaster, _

_ Midnight of the Eleventh of June, in the Year of Our Lord 1398. _

_ In terms of days, this one went wonderfully. _


End file.
